Something I've Meant to Say, Always
by TheVenturer
Summary: Things John and Sherlock have never said to one another, and stories behind them. Inspired by a quote post for 6-Word-Johnlock on tumblr, I have written many! Here are drabbles - angsty, romantic, fluffy, sad, smutty, etcetera - based off of 6WJL's I've written. Please feel free to leave your own suggestions! No particular length or order; update twice weekly. Warnings inside -
1. Part 1 - Pulse

_**A/N: **Here is another drabble series! _

_I felt it deserved to stand alone from Fluffy Clouds because these will be written in my more stream-of-consciousness style. I was completely inspired by posts on tumblr, but unfortunately you aren't allowed to just write 6 letters in a chapter for a story here... oh well, I've made do!_

_All are titled with a 6-Letter Johnlock quote, of my own making, and the stories correspond with them. Please, do feel free to leave your own and I may very well use it!_

_I hope everyone enjoys and, as is my forte, we will start with some angst and feels. Reviews welcome and loved!_

**_Disclaimer:_** _This will serve as disclaimer for all future chapters. I do not own, nor do I make profit from these writings; I do not claim to own the rights to Sherlock Holmes, or the television show Sherlock. those honors go to the late-great Doyle and the just-great duo of Moffat and Gatiss. _

**_Chapter Warnings:_** _Nightmares, mentions of trauma._

* * *

I. "Your Fingerprints are Tickling my Wrist"

He was having a nightmare.

It always began the same, with dust in his nostrils and blood coating his fingertips. He thought he heard someone laughing at him, behind him, but in the end it was just the snip-snap-crack of firearms ringing in his ears. Everything felt heavy and he felt like a new hole had been ripped through his body and as he looked up to the burning sun the dream morphed into something far more tragic, though perhaps with better scenery.

He was wearing his favorite black jacket. The sky was blue. His nostrils were full of London air, but his still felt just as out of breath as he watched those dark curls dance in the wind, as he watched his best friend fall from a ledge far too high, and far too far away.

He knew he couldn't have caught him. But he would have tried.

Right before he is hit by the bicycler, right before he is knocked unconscious, John is pulled from his nightmare by fingers grasping hard into his shoulders, by the noise of some deep voice bidding him to wake. His eyes open slowly and the only illumination in the room is the trickle of light from the hallway, no doubt turned on by the very man whose grip still isn't lessening, whose breathing is almost as heavy as his own, whose eyes are electric silver and look so alive John wants to take their pulse.

Instead he lifts his own hands and, despite the trembling of his wrist and the anxiety still bubbling in his chest, wraps his fingers around they pale, thin wrists of his friend.

John lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding as Sherlock's heartbeat pounds roughly into his palms, as his fingerprints almost brand or bruise the thin skin there. He feels the shallow puffs of breath above him, can feel the erratic rhythm, mirroring his own. It's a comfort and a curse. Why does he need this?

They both know why.

But neither says anything as Sherlock leans to the side and lets his grip on Johns shoulders go slack, as he lays down to his side in Johns bed, with Johns hands still tightly around his wrists, with their eyes still holding something foreign between them. Neither says anything as both fall asleep, their hands resting on the pillows between them, pale ones almost holding tanned as the beating of their throbbing hearts created a Tchaikovskyan lullaby between them.


	2. Part 2 - Honey-Bees

_**A/N: **Enjoy this spur-of-the-moment 221B drabble, and please feel free to review!_

**_Warning:_** _Cute Johnlockery is afoot!_

* * *

II. "Honey-Bees Live in Your Hair"

The touching-thing started almost two months after John had moved in.

Neither knew why, neither really discussed it, but sometimes Sherlock's foot touched Johns under the table at breakfast, sometimes Johns hand ran over Sherlock's shoulder on the way upstairs, sometimes with the light of the telly screen casting an artful glow over those sharp cheekbones and that strong jaw, complimenting both so well, both men let their knees touch.

Neither of them mentioned it until that day when John Watson ran his fingers through Sherlock Holmes' hair like a lover.

He hadn't meant to, not really, but as he set the detectives tea down, offhandedly ruffling the erratic curls, he wasn't anticipating the man sitting in the leather chair to look up with those silver-green cat's eyes, that cupids-bow upper lip. He hadn't anticipated that hair being so warm and soft, like some nest made for his hand. He hadn't anticipated getting shivers in his fingertips.

So when John leaned down and Sherlock leaned up, and their lips brushed and parted, the shared oxygen between them vibrating, both stopped caring about the touching-thing. When Sherlock brushed his violinists-fingers across the gentle slope of John's jaw, when he let his tongue slip on the chapped bottom lip held between his own, they just let themselves feel it, like a thousand honey-bees.


	3. Part 3 - Medicine

_**A/N: **__Hello Readers! Here is one of the two installments which will be posted to this chapter for this week :) _

_Thanks to __TheReturned __for her wonderful reviews! Please please please check out her stuff; she's brilliant!_

_Little announcement: I am currently writing a sister-fic to the highly popular and loved __'In My Mind You're a Palace'! __It will be in John's POV, written in the same style, and will follow his view of he and Sherlock's relationship – with a Johnlocky spin of course! Be on the lookout!_

* * *

"**Give Me the Medicine I Need"**

There is a certain time of day, week, month, when Sherlock Holmes grows restless. It comes with the lack of a case, the lack of stimuli, the lack of cigarettes or cadavers; it comes tipping off the edge of a nervous iceberg and crashing down into the dark depths of some shadowy agitation; it comes unexpectedly and swiftly, a flash-flood with no warning.

During this certain time of month, John Watson does his best to cope, to quiet and coexist with the dark flooding, the nervous iceberg; it's hard to tip-toe around a predator who hasn't eaten in months. It's just as hard to survive black-mood Sherlock.

Then there was the day they found the proper medicine.

"John, get me some, I need some."

"No."

"Now, John! …please?"

"…No."

There was a frustrated growl, a flurry of robes and jungle-vine curls as the great consulting detective went about tearing pages out of books and scattering studies about the living room.

"Sherlock, stop it, please," John stood in the doorway between living room and kitchen watching, trying to soothe the man though he knew it was as useless as trying to sing to a mad tiger.

Whirling around swiftly, Sherlock stalked right up in front of the shorter man, looking down at him intensely.

"John," he breathed out hurriedly. "John, just one that's all I need."

The soldier stood his ground, even against the barrage of baritone and the deep eyes. "No, Sherlock, you said when you asked-"

"Damn what I bloody said!" The snarling detective shoved John into the table behind him, invading the blond's space and pressing their bodies together tightly. "I need something, please," he almost whined, his voice dropping octaves at a time, the shivers in John's spine dropping down below his belt just as quickly.

The doctor didn't stay anything, thinking fast; his control was slipping, his breath coming short, the heat in his cheeks flaring as he felt the long, lithely muscled body in front of him, flattening him against the wood table behind. He looked up at the long face with the usually fluorescent eyes, dark in the badly lit kitchen. John didn't move, he didn't blink, he could barely breath as the detective slowly leaned forwards, his breath puffing on the blushingly tanned cheek, before those soft lips traced the line before them.

"Please, John," the blond felt the whispered plea through every fiber of his being. "Give me something."


	4. Part 4 - Mourning

_**A/N: **A little storm before the calm, because I figured you'd want the painful first :)_

_I've had a pretty cruddy day, so this is the result... sorry? Hope you enjoy either way!_

_**Warnings:** Depressions and that evil she-who-shall-not-be-named(because she shouldn't exist basically I hold a grudge sorry not sorry ugh Mary)_

* * *

"**Because You Left Me to Mourn"**

Mary had asked John to make dinner, had asked whether or not that person had called, had asked how the day was, had asked how he was, had asked and asked but John hadn't moved and he didn't feel like he wanted to; he was in a mood.

Perhaps because it was Autumn – Sherlock had always secretly loved Autumn, John knew that, could tell; frequent walks rather than rides, slight smiles on those bowed-lips as the taller man walked out the door or flipped his collar, it didn't matter what Sherlock did as long as John saw that incandescent smile.

Perhaps because it was Wednesday – he and Sherlock had watched Bond or or some crap telly on Wednesdays, unless they were on a case or traveling or being somewhere else entirely it didn't matter they were together with an adrenaline in their veins that sang some kind of dangerous ballad to the damned and the fucked up, it was living and it was brilliant.

Perhaps because it was simply a day John Watson was alive and Sherlock Holmes wasn't, like a year without a sun it was damning to all inhabitants of the soul.

Mary could understand, she could try, but she couldn't bring John the happiness he lacked.

She didn't think she would, if she could.

If she had the choice to bring the man her lover loved back.


	5. Part 5 - Need

_**A/N: **A little Johnlocky sweetness to make up for that painful bit before this. Have a good weekend, readers! Cya next week_

_Please feel free to review!_

_**Warnings:** If you aren't into men kissing, leave. I have no idea why you're here, really... *hearts and cookies to all don't hate me!*_

* * *

"**You Make Me Need You Here"**

Sherlock's tongue on John's lip tasted like strawberries, like rain in July, like the wildest call in the dead of night when all you can see is the stars and there is a man made out of moonlight; here the man with those cheekbones is made of moonlight.

They had a fight at a crime scene, Sherlock didn't care as much as John wanted, needed him to and John didn't care for that; bit not good, bit too inhuman, bit too much like hiding and John wasn't having it. They both spoke low and harsh and angry, Lestrade waited patiently, Sally smirked and the tension was played like a violin as the detective waltzed out and into the back of a cab; the cab still waited as John followed. That was something.

Sherlock's fingers dived into John's hair like a diver looking for pearls in the deep sea, searching for a fortune, for something beautiful, for something to hold on to maybe to escape some kind of whirlpool perhaps, no one can really say; with his back against the hallway wall, John thought he was being held by something desperate. He didn't care, he pressed back just as hard, tit for tat and teeth for tease as tongues warred and fingers bruised.

It was animal, it was dangerous.

It was needed.


End file.
